On Axis
by R. Winter
Summary: Marauder era. Not a leather and whips ship of LilySnape. Covers the day before Snape's Worst Memory and after, recounting how his unrequited crush took a turn for the worst. An explanation concerning Snape's motives and why he ceaselessly tortures Harry.
1. On Axis

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any of the characters, but if I did I'd definitely be living on piles upon piles of chocolate.

**Note:** This story is to further the spreading of a theory I have about why Snape is the way he is towards Harry and why he became good after/just before Lily and James were killed. Please read and review. Every helpful words matters.

He would dream about her. Unbidden images of her would flicker across his mind until they'd pronounce themselves into some coherent story, some recognizable scenario. Would they meet on the lawn, the sun shining down on her brilliant red hair, shimmering in unexpected places, bringing an uncharacteristic brightness to her face? Or would it be in the dining hall where they'd clumsily bump into one another? When this happens, there is the dubious absence of the awkward silences and averted gazes that typically follow in his waking run-ins with her. Instead she greets him warmly, a gentle smile that implies that she wouldn't wish to be with anyone else in this moment.

But it is not her actions that make his dreams so memorable. It is not her lips curling into a smile as she recounts some comical event in her day or her playful green eyes alight with the excitement of a new potion discovery to share with him. It's the way he feels. The moment her face breaks into a pleasant welcome instead of a passive, expressionless apology, he is overcome with relief. He is relieved that despite all of his shortcomings, she has spoken to him, she has acknowledged him—no, more than that. She is finally his friend. He's relieved that he must no longer watch her covertly from afar, tracing every detail of her movements, committing them to memory. She will actually call him by name, and it will not sound derisive or cruel. It will sound as simple and as casual as turning the pages of a book.

All of this marks his return to reality with all the more anguish. These things that his subconscious secretly crave will _never_ materialize. He's not sure if he hates himself more for his inexplicable infatuation with a mudblood or his utter incapability to do anything about it. He is weak. Every time the dim hue of morning light penetrates his bed curtains, his chest tightens with . . . he is never quite sure. Anger? Loss? Bitter disappointment? Despite the understanding that he will never have this friendship, this firsthand knowledge of who she is, he is undeterred from his vigilance. He still cannot curb his need to watch her, to know her. He will always want more. He will always want her to know him in return.

* * *

The acrid stench of a poorly prepared potion gradually began to batter Snape's senses. He looked up, his black eyes needing less than a moment to isolate the source of the fetid smell. What a shocking surprise. James Potter. His lip unconsciously curled as he returned his attentions back to his textbook brew. The refreshing fragrance siphoning up from his cauldron was hardly enough to overcome the repulsive odor. To James' unfortunate credit, it didn't appear that he was the only one who blundered through the fine art of dicing the key ingredient, a blackened root from deep within the Dark Forest. His eyes narrowed as he watched James further foul up his potion, resorting to desperate measures that would surely not save him.

Snape wondered what it was about Potter's remarkable ineptitude that seemed to attract half the girls of their 5th year class. As James sloshed the ingredients crudely about the bowl in what Snape thought might be an attempt at stirring, a portion of the contents splashed onto the table, quickly eating away at the wood. Snape felt a hint of regret that James had moved his hand too quickly to be burned. He felt an even greater sense of regret that it had not been his hair that had caught fire. Snape wished any deformity, any deficiency upon James Potter for being what he was: an arrogant, bullying Quidditch star. James' popularity another point of contention. Why would anyone idolize this _boy_ who could hardly brew a single antidote correctly, whose MO was causing trouble and insurgence at every corner? Snape had long lost faith in his fellow classmates to respect anyone worthwhile.

He continued to scan the room, heaving a sigh riddled with annoyance and boredom. Slughorn had moved anxiously to confront the catastrophe that Potter had wrought on the back of the room, with which his classmates were likewise enthralled. Only one seemed untouched by Potter's extraordinary flair for failure. Snape flicked his eyes down to the table, reluctant to allow himself his greatest indulgence. He cursed his desire to watch her fingertips distractedly curve around the tip of her cauldron, always something infinitely more important on her mind.

It was too late by the time he realized he was plainly staring at her. His self-loathing was never enough to truly curb him from his fascination. Outwardly, he regarded her with the curiosity of one drawn to the absentminded movements of a Hogwarts' portrait painting. Inwardly, he studied every gesture, every expression. With a consummate appreciation, he was intent on gathering every last piece of Lily Evans he could discern. His carefully controlled face never hinted at the truth.

He noted that her potion was one of the few, if not the only other, that held any fair resemblance to what they were making. Slughorn hardly ever ignored an opportunity to praise Lily for her singular talents in potion making. It wasn't that Snape's gifts in Potions went unnoticed, but they were certainly sung less loudly. Snape couldn't fault the bureaucratic professor for playing up the uncommonly attractive and unmistakably intelligent Gryffindor. In Slughorn's mind, Snape didn't possess half of Lily's potential in the long run. Though Snape knew it was his greatest strength that his enemies continually underestimated him, it still stung that teachers rarely acknowledged his accomplishments. He assured himself with the thought that it didn't matter. Some day they would see. More importantly, some day she would see.

As he continued to glance furtively at Lily, he thought her green eyes flashed for just a moment in his direction. He snapped his gaze away all too quickly for him to pretend like he hadn't been staring her. Slughorn brought the spotlight back onto himself with his boisterous, invasive baritone as Snape knew with a grim dismay that Lily was watching him with a triumphant glint in her eyes.

"Well . . that wasn't quite the Sleeping Potion experience I was looking for. Perhaps next time, Potter." The Gryffindor snickered with Black in the back of the room, as if his monumental disruption of their class was somehow entertaining.

"I took some creative freedoms, Professor." Always such a laugh, that Potter.

"Hrmph. For those of you who haven't damaged school property with their creative liberties, it's time to test your potions. Hopefully nobody will be going to the hospital wing this time."

Snape sighed again. He was often without a partner due to the odd number of students in their class. Being alone, however, was preferable to Daniel Leakwater, another Slytherin whose hopeful, watery eyes often begged Snape to befriend him. Daniel was employing such a gaze now that would, once again, go ignored.

"Snivellus. Hey, snivellus," a grating voice said from somewhere behind him. Snape's insides immediately began to boil and his throat to restrict with an uncontrollable rage. He turned to the voice, eyes in snake-like slits of unparalleled loathing.

"Want to be my partner? Take a little drink of this?" Black moved James' cauldron in front of him and threateningly tipped more onto the already mutilated and scorched table. The acidic substance burned even more quickly through this time.

Snape considered ignoring him, but then thought better. "Would you really like to drink mine in return, Black? I'd be more than willing to brew it a little _too_ well for you."

Sirius stared back unblinking, a strand of the deepest black cloaking the right side of his face, the spark of a challenge in his equally black eyes. He opened his mouth to speak when a high, female voice interrupted them. During his exchange with Sirius, Snape had forgotten about James' shameless pursuit of Lily.

"And what? Have my insides evaporate into air? Surely not." Lily declined James invitation with more than a little disgust before her gaze shifted to Snape. For a moment, he thought that she surely was not looking at him, but as he looked back at her, unwilling to break eye contact, he knew that she was. He also knew that she was about to say something.

"I would rather be partners with someone who might actually fulfill the assignment and not kill me in the process. Severus, I see you don't have a partner?" She sat in her chair, legs crossed, as each and every one of her friends looked at her as if she had just spoken the question in parseltongue. She didn't look away though. She didn't begin to laugh mockingly or to return her friends' horrified stares. She was serious. James' laugh stopped abruptly in his throat. Realizing, too, that she wasn't joking, he turned slowly to stare at Snape murderously.

"Mind if I come over?" Snape forcefully tried to form words. He wanted to tell her that her mudblood hands didn't deserve to stain his table, that her opinion weighed less than air. But he couldn't. She had spoken his name without ridicule, looked at him without repulsion, without apathy. Her eyes were as green as ever, her all-consuming kindness and charm sparkling out at him.

She pushed her chair away from the table and began to weave through the other students who had stopped watching the mini-drama, having now become thoroughly distracted by their problematic potions. All but James. Snape would be pushing his luck to look back at James victoriously, so he decided to let the hateful gaze go unreturned. Why was Lily doing this? Was she simply using him to make a stab at James? Did she pity him? Whatever her reasons, Snape couldn't contain his complete discomfort with the situation. He could hardly process an intelligible thought as she moved towards him with her enticing grace. Snape looked away as she sat down beside him.

She studied him for a moment. Her scrutiny was agonizing. "You, Severus Snape, were staring at me."

Thankfully, his brain had decided to return in this moment to provide him with a reply. "I was only . . . appraising the quality of your potion," his voice sounded scratchy and deep. He quickly realized that he had spoken less than four words the entire day.

"And the verdict?"

He had kept his eyes down until this point, avoiding her disarming gaze, but now they flicked to her potion distractedly, giving it a brief once-over. "Adequate, satisfactory at best," the superior tone came all too naturally. "You should've used more wormwood. The steam should be spiraling up in curls, not in straight lines."

As Lily gave him a brief reprieve from her staring to look at the straight, wispy strings of smoke, he took the moment to analyze her from the corner of his eye. Her hair was up in a ponytail, the loose red strands firmly pinned behind her ears. The red was more subdued in the dim light of the dungeon. Her face was a soft, pale white with a smattering of freckles that had otherwise gone unnoticed from the far distance Snape was accustomed to when watching her. She tried to change the steam's course by twirling her finger in and out of it, but it was no use.

She looked back at him perplexed, their eyes meeting only for a moment. He eluded her eyes again; some irrational part of him fearing that she could see everything that he had so desperately tried to hide if he looked into her eyes.

"But I did exactly as the book said and even added my own touch to it." Snape shrugged. He had given his analysis. "Why is yours' better?" she said, her eyes following the thin curls of steam that wafted delightfully over his potion. "Do you have a different book?"

As she reached out to take his book, Snape caught her instantly by the wrist. Realizing his overreaction, he dropped her arm limply and looked away, trying to regain his composure, trying to appear poised and collected, not awkward and nervous.

He muttered an apology as Lily looked at him questioningly and with what might've been the faintest amount of hurt. After a vicious internal battle with himself and an irritated sigh, he moved his book in the table space between them and cracked open the weathered spine. He turned the pages slowly, allowing her ample time to take in the tiny, cramped handwriting that scrawled over nearly every inch of each page. Her brow furrowed slightly as she began to understand what he was showing her. Her hand slid onto a stopped page, lightly sliding over the Sleeping Drought Potion instructions. They were hardly legible after all of his revisions.

"Is that your handwriting?" A pause. "You've done all of this, then? But—wouldn't that mean—?" She left the question hanging, as he met her inquiring gaze.

Wouldn't that mean he spent his friendless hours testing and experimenting? Wouldn't that mean he was far more adept at potions than any student in this classroom, than any student in this school through practice alone? The question could've ended in any number of ways but Snape chose to understand her hesitancy to finish her thought as a hesitancy to know. It would be too hopeful, too optimistic for him to think that she really wanted to know anything about him. Him. He was an oily haired, quiet Slyhterin who held no advantageous social value to someone like her. Her brief interest in his book notes was only a temporary distraction from the only thing she could ever offer him: pity.

His first impulse was to close the book, her hand in it or not, and ignore her for the rest of the period. He had let his personal, _unexplainable_ affection get in the way of sense. He had shown her what he was capable of without any real knowledge of how she might use that information. He had allowed himself a brief vulnerability because of Lily's patient, considerate demeanor. There was no excuse for weakness.

He pulled the book from under her hands and, closing it, slid it to the opposite end of the table. He looked at her impassively. "Now you see. Just the same as yours. It's an older edition, so it seems that if anyone has the upper hand, it's you."

"Oh, I don't think so—"

"We should begin testing our potions," he said, sharply cutting her off. She seemed like she might go on, but saw that he was intent on changing the subject and thought better.

Taking charge of the situation, he pulled her cauldron toward himself and deftly began to chop a few extra cubes of wormwood. "Just to be on the safe side," he added. Though in the back of his mind he recognized that his commentary wasn't necessary, he was in his element doing potion work, therefore, he hardly bothered to check himself. "I don't want you putting me into an unintentional coma."

He opened his mouth, but all too slowly. "You first," Lily said quickly.

She looked at him amused, her captivating eyes articulating an irresistible mischief. Snape replied with a dark look of defeat before reluctantly dragging her polished cauldron towards his lips. She continued to examine him as he took a single mouthful and swallowed. Gingerly placing her cauldron on the table again, he looked back at her. Her perfect face and poise was the last thing he saw before dropping off.

In what only seemed like a few moments of languid images of Lily Evans flashing in and out his mind, Snape sniffed, his eyes jerking open. Lily held a pink plant in front of his nose on the table, a trace of concern touching her perfectly stenciled features.

She sighed with relief. "Good. I haven't killed you," she paused for a moment. "But perhaps you'd be headed for the worse if you hadn't fixed my 'adequate' potion." She smiled. It felt infectious, but the most he could do was soften the hard, determined expression on his face. Curling his lips in any small manner was just asking too much.

"Your turn," he said. Was that eagerness in his voice? He only prayed she didn't notice.

She didn't appear to as she downed a few lazy mouthfuls of the potion. Snape was overcome with an involuntary panic. If someone could've warned him that Lily Evans was going to be testing his potion, he certainly would've perfected every step in the process, allowing no room for error. Instead, he had gone through the motions with only a passing attention. He had reasoned that there would be little sense in preparing a perfect potion that no one was going to take.

He watched Lily's expression relax until her head dropped gingerly onto her crossed arms, an utterly blank expression taking the place of her otherwise cheerful, lively façade. Today was an exceptional day. He glanced away, picking up the root, and stopped as his hand halfway bridged the gap between them. He paused because he didn't want this moment to end. He wanted to study her, up close, safe from her penetrating gaze. He wanted to truly grasp what it looked like when she slept, what it might look like if she ever trusted him enough to actually fall asleep in front of him. He couldn't control his inability to move any closer as a strand of her bright red hair balanced precariously on the edge of her ear, threatening to fall across her face. It did fall, diagonally halving it two distinct entities, he moved to correct the distortion.

"What do you think you're doing there, Snivelly?"

Through the course of their interaction, he had mercifully forgotten about the two banes of his existence. He pushed away the intensity of his thoughts and turned in his chair to meet whatever inane fiasco they were planning. He began to stand, but hesitated again. Lily was still asleep. He would have to protect her.

He gave a slow, calculating look to the front of the classroom to find, almost with a laugh in his head, that the professor had allowed a student to test their potion on him. He snored obliviously. What a fool. Allow yourself such vulnerability with Potter and Black in the class? Snape's desire for Slughorn's approval evaporated instantly. Black and Potter loomed over the table behind him, each with equally identical grins of arrogance. They always believed they'd successfully trapped him.

"I'm not surprised, Potter," Snape countered with a precise enunciation, filling every word with painstaking hatred and contempt. "You go about your girls the same way you go about dueling. Wait until they're at their weakest and attack in a group. This must be a dream come true, Lily sleeping like she is. I doubt she'd even have to move before—" he smiled sickly, "you could take what you _wanted_—"

The smirk on James' face promptly died. He rounded the edge of the table, the boundary between them vanishing. Snape's chair grated across the floor, pushed forcefully back as he stood up. He had dropped the root on the table, crossing his arms across his chest and into the folds of his robe. His hand rested on the tip of his wand. He kept an unsavory eye on Sirius, who was still perched like a hawk on the other table, looking just as eager for a fight as he had before.

"You don't know the first thing about me, _Severus_." James was mocking Lily's voice, adding his own inflection of disdain.

"Don't I?" Snape moved forward, only inches from the ruffled black hair, the thin face, and the cruel expression. His wand was now perfectly aligned at Sirius from beneath his robes. He really didn't need to say anything too articulate, too insightful here. One word always worked. He said it low, beneath his breath, in a snake's venomous whisper. "Coward."

As the two struggled for their wands, Snape contemplated which curse he would use on Sirius, the greater enemy of the two. Just as their wands were almost out, and the curse on the edge of Snape's tongue—

"What.. What's going on?" The statement had started out drowsy, but ended with a definitive authority. The root. It must've woken her with whatever light breeze had carried the rousing scent to her nose. They all froze. Though Snape had mostly blocked James and Sirius from view by standing protectively in front of Lily, her ill-humored tone indicated that she didn't need to guess what was going on.

"Seriously, what kind of joke is this, James?" Snape didn't turn to look at her. He did, however, feel a flush of victory as the other two regarded Lily warily, their wands both drawn, both guiltily caught.

Slughorn finally took a cue to roar obnoxiously to life. He coughed a few times before taking a quick scan around the room. Slughorn examined the boy who had been desperately waving the root in front of his face for the better part of ten minutes. The Gryffindor had apparently made his potion far too strong.

"I think that'll be enough from you, Peter. Try to follow the instructions a little more closely, hm?" Slughorn glanced uncertainly at Snape, Sirius, Lily, and James, who were all staring back with fixed, impenetrable expressions. "The rest of you may return to your seats, class is dismissed."

James and Sirius looked like they might protest, but withdrew slowly after one severe look from Lily. After they left, she calmly collected her things, a trace of fatigue still faintly present in her movements.

He moved to do the same when she stopped suddenly, with an expression that implied she had a whole slew of angry things to say. She opened her mouth and closed it, inwardly trying to control herself. Snape continued to pack while watching her intently. She finally sighed, resigned.

"The sad thing is, I always feel somehow responsible," she laughed lightly because it made no sense. "I know I can't control them but the things they do . . . they just . . . " she trailed off. They shared a knowing look. It was a moment that seemed to extend for an eternity.

"It was nice being partners with you."

He had no idea what to say, so Snape simply nodded and headed out of the room, leaving Lily with her things half packed. He knew he would dream about her, try as he might to resist. For a moment, for a brief hopeful moment, he believed that he could have more than her pity, that he could finally have her friendship. But the idea was pushed away; he had more to worry about. His Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L. was tomorrow.


	2. Snape's Worst Memory

**To Reviewers:** Thanks a lot for reviewing! It means a lot when people let me know they enjoyed my fic. I'm definitely a supporter of encouragement, especially when people encourage me to write! Thanks again! I lied about there only being one chapter left. There is still one to go in which I analyze the past from adult Snape's POV.

Snape's eyes flew over the examination paper as he exited the castle, striding out onto the grounds, hardly an upward glance at the students around him. Every once and awhile, Potter and Black's words would unpleasantly disturb his concentration. They were not, however, disturbing him from the sheet he grasped so firmly for he had long since memorized the words. He had been trailing Lily, an almost thoughtless process for the frequency in which he did so. The examination was a convenient pretension that was not only to cloak his intentions to others, but also to himself. He could try to fool himself that his first priority was to perfect an extreme thoroughness for his DADA O.W.L., before and after, but he knew at heart that that wasn't the case.

His internal debate could last for hours. He knew it was useless to entertain the idea of Lily in any sense. It was useless in the way that she was the light to his dark, useless in the way that she was a Gryffindor, and ultimately useless in the way that she had two muggle parents. Snape's pureblood mother had cultivated an unshakeable disdain for anyone who wasn't, at the very least, half-blood. Snape had come to the conclusion, however, that his mother had not always thoughts like this. He was sure her silent loathing for his father had strengthened what had only been a weak notion at first, nourishing it into a full-fledged philosophy. His mother and the entire Slytherin house shared an equally unspoken scorn for mudbloods. Snape had practically been bred for the ideology.

Snape had known about Lily Evans since his first year at Hogwarts, when his fellow housemates took malicious pleasure in spreading the names of all mudbloods to any ear that would listen. Lily was of utmost disdain as she was one of the few who displayed a rare aptitude for magic. The purebloods balked at skill and talent, as if mudbloods should know their rightful place as witless and incapable servants. It was an offense to many that Lily was even at Hogwarts, but it became unforgivable when she bested them in most every subject.

Snape's father had been a muggle. He hated him in many ways, principally for the unprovoked disrespect he'd shown his mother. Eileen Prince had also been an exceptionally gifted Potions student, like Lily, but without Lily's vibrant courage and confidence. Perhaps it was their stark similarities and differences that had first incited his interest in Lily Evans. Before he'd taken up his sleepless post as Lily's relentless watcher, he had hated her. He assumed she was a mirror image of the frail, shaky woman he had known as his mother. As she continually invalidated his assumption through her outspoken nature and mystifying cunning, his interest and curiosity peaked.

It was involuntary, however. He hadn't known the extent of his desire before she had begun making uninvited appearances in his dreams. He hated the unwelcome reminder of what he didn't, couldn't want.

Her voice drifted over the dozen or so people that lounged haphazardly by the lake. She had rested by the water's edge with a few of her friends, characteristically untouched by the noise and chaos around her, her green eyes drifting over the restless lake water. He decided after a few more furtive glances that he had better things to do than pretend to read a paper. He stowed the paper in his bag and began towards the castle when the faintest whisper of _Snivellus_ caught his attention. He immediately tensed. He didn't stop though. Perhaps they wouldn't say anything. Perhaps they'd give him a day's rest.

He knew better though. James wouldn't forget about yesterday. Snape saw the two boys jump to their feet, ready to pounce, in his peripheral vision.

"All right, Snivellus?"

When Snape realized that their wands were already out, he knew he would not be fast enough as he plunged his hand inside his robes.

"_Expelliarmus!"_

"_Impedimenta!"_

After his wand flew away from him, there was another sickening flash of light that knocked the strength out of him, rendering him helpless for the moment. They truly worked well as a duo. Snape watched his fellow students advance on him as quickly as James and Sirius, eager for blood and entertainment. In that moment, he hated them all. None of his housemates moved to help him. There was no one.

Snape's hatred and fury began to rise to paramount levels as he understood where James kept glancing intermittently. A show for _her_. James began to speak to him, but what he said was irrelevant.

"You—wait," he was focused on James. "You—wait . . ."

It would be hard for him to say what happened next. His mouth frothed with pink bubbles, the taste revolting and savage to his tongue. The Impedimenta curse was hindering his ability to move so that he was slowly being forced to swallow the disgusting soap. He could only do this, of course, when he was not impulsively gagging on it.

"Leave him ALONE!"

He knew instantly who it was, and knew why she had come to his aid. Pity. He must look so weak, bubbles spilling from his mouth, powerless to stop his victimization. There had never been a moment worse than this. At least before, the ambushes lasted hardly more than minutes, the approximate length of Sirius' attention span. Now James had made him into a spectacle for Lily. Now Snape was not only punching bag, but also an instrument to win Lily's favor. James and Sirius had abused him in every way possible. He was sickened by his own failings. He was just like his mother.

With a churning hatred, Snape desperately inched towards his wand. At least she had given him a distraction. He didn't need _Lily's_ help. He doubted it was even personal. She would do this for anyone. He would show them all today that he would rather die at the hands of brutish bullies than accept assistance from the likes of _her_.

"—you if it was a choice between you and the giant squid."

"Bad luck, Prongs." Sirius turned to Snape. "OY!"

Snape had aimed the cruelest of his creations at James, but because his hands were shaking miserably from wrath and rage, the curse went to high and only grazed James cheek. Sirius had acted quickly, however, to use the single spell Snape wished he had never conceived of. Snape hung exposed to a jeering audience. Quite the performers. A crowd never went unsatisfied when James and Sirius were around.

By far the worst in the crowd was Lily, whose face twitched compromisingly for an instant. An instant too long.

"Let him down!"

Spilling to the ground he, once again, was not quick to protect himself from Sirius' locomotor mortis.

"LEAVE HIM ALONE!" She produced her wand, creating sizeable cause for concern for Sirius and James.

They shared a few more inane words before Snape struggled to his feet, enraptured with anger.

"There you go. You're lucky Evans was here, Snivellus—"

"I don't need _help_ from a filthy mudblood like her!"

Lily blinked. "Fine," she said coolly. "I won't bother in the future. And I'd wash your pants if I were you, _Snivellus_."

Snape had finally said it, had finally told her exactly what she was and would always be. He reaped his deserving punishment. She had spoken to him with all the poison and mockery he had always feared she would. It was too late now. He hated her. He hated everyone. He would never rescind his statement in front of all these people. He doubted he could ever take it back at all.

Lily turned to James. She thoroughly condemned him just as severely as she had done Snape. She voiced every thought, every drop of annoyance Snape had ever had with James so concisely, so poignantly that Snape doubted he would ever be able to beat her damning statement. When she hurried away, he knew he would be the one to suffer James' hurt, his rejection.

To Snape's horror, he thought the day might actually get worse when James' suggested taking his pants off to the barbaric. They both knew the answer. At that moment, Snape was relieved by the eerie appearance of Professor Dumbledore.

Dumbledore stood silhouetted in the stone frame of the grounds entrance. He stepped delicately onto the lawn, unnoticed to everyone but Snape, who saw him all wrong, his vision distorted by the fact that he was hanging upside down. Dumbledore's sparkling blue eyes regarded him enigmatically. Snape didn't see pity. Maybe sadness? Maybe the faintest trace of anger?

Dumbledore's attention flicked quickly to James and Sirius. He didn't rush across the lawn, but he crossed the distance between them with a definitive purpose without the slightest flutter of expression. From behind James, he slid his wand out and turned Snape right side up, placing him gently on his feet.

A hush fell across the students with uncanny swiftness and James, sensing imminent danger, quickly spun around. Snape couldn't see the dread he assumed was painted over the Gryffindor's face at suddenly coming face to face with Dumbledore.

Dumbledore's mouth opened after his eyes locked authoritatively with James', but then closed again. Snape would never wish to be on the receiving end of the look that Dumbledore was giving James, one of utter disappointment.

"You will make no further attempt to entertain your fellow classmates at his expense," he said simply.

Snape collected his things, hands shaking and raced away, the echo of Dumbledore's words ringing softly in his ears as he continued to speak to James—

"You will clean up that gash with Madam Pomfrey, and meet me in my office forthwith."

Tears of anger stung his eyes as he flew down the corridors towards the Slytherin common room. He violently wiped the tears away, desperately seeking the control he knew he could wield over himself. As he pushed his way into the gratefully empty bathroom, he threw his books down across the floor and madly threw water into his mouth, anything to get the taste of soap out, the taste of vile defeat.

He wasn't sure how long he gripped the porcelain, his knuckles white and aching as he looked down into the basin of the sink. His thoughts were a crash course of images and plans of revenge, of Lily blinking at him disbelieving, and of Dumbledore peering at him indecipherably. He could not control the hate, the loathing, and the bitterness.

But after the pain and anger burned away, a great grief gnawed at him from the inside, a grief that threatened uncontrollably beneath the surface. He disciplined his face, despite it, back into what had become so familiar to him, into a mask of indifference and lofty annoyance. His eyes slid from his reflection to the door creaking open. He slipped his wand out, ready to curse the next person into the next week.

He watched from the mirror as a tall, gangly boy carefully entered the bathroom. His hawkish eyes looked Snape over, lingering on his wand, as he made no attempt to hide his judgment. Snape recognized the boy as Evan Rosier, a fellow Slytherin, whose company he often avoided. Rosier enjoyed the popular pursuit of rigorously tormenting the younger years and executing cruel practical jokes on any unsuspecting bystander.

"What is it?" Snape hissed at him hatefully.

"We saw what happened."

Snape boiled. It was a confirmation that his own alleged housemates allowed him to be bullied and humiliated.

"There's a lot—" he paused, the severity of Snape's glare perhaps beginning to convince him that this might not be the best time for invitations. "There's a lot we could offer you."

Snape watched him coldly. Snape could not fathom what possible advantage he could gain from the friendship of Rosier and his boorish cronies. He was likely the vulture coming in to feast on the vulnerability and weakness he thought he had seen earlier. All Slytherins were the same.

"I think I saw what you could offer today."

"Perhaps, but—"

"No, thanks," Snape cut him off contemptibly.

Rosier reacted with an angry sneer. "Fine. Lucius would hate the sight of your handed down robes anyway." His tough act was compromised by the fact that he all but ran out of the bathroom to avoid any hex Snape might thow on him.

Lucius. The name sounded familiar. Snape turned back towards the mirror, this time directing his angry, cool eyes at himself. As he inspected his unsightly black hair, a memory came to him. Lucius had gone to Hogwarts a few years before and Snape had no cause to remember him except for hi smart, wealthy way of dress and his sinuous, persuasive voice. When Snape saw him in the dungeon or in the hallways, he had often wished he could be like him: popular, surrounded by admiring girls, and inarguably pure. Perhaps if he was their leader, the advantageous might not be so bad.

As Snape stood there, he realized that there weren't many options for him in his present state. He needed allies. He decided he would execute the necessary changes. He would meet Lucius and, through him, achieve his dreams.


	3. Lucius Malfoy

**NOTE: **I have reaped some considerable changes on the end of chapter 2. Therefore, if you're a reader who's coming back, I'd make sure to note that before continuing on. Please review new readers!

It had been almost two years since that day in the bathroom. Snape was in his 7th year and much had changed. After _that_ day, Snape had evaded Lily's usual routes to class, routes he'd had memorized, routes that cost him a great deal to avoid. Never again did she acknowledge him in class like that first time.

He worked desperately to forget her, to kill the infatuation that had already had several years of nurturing. It came easier over time, the dreams punctuating his hours of sleep less and less. After some time, he realized that a distraction she had been. He had used the free time for studying, hermitting himself in the library for hours on end. In this time, he had greatly advanced himself in potions and the dark arts. It still stung that no matter how well he continued to perform in Potions, he would never receive another well-intentioned compliment from the only person who it would matter coming from. He would slam a book shut angrily, and rationalize that it was good that the distraction weighed on him less. It gave him more time for his other pursuits.

He had worked meticulously to infiltrate Rosier's group of Slytherins. He had hissed insulting remarks at muggleborns when he knew the gang was within earshot. If he was engaged with Rosier in an engrossing discussion about the Dark Arts, he would mutter hexes (loud enough for him to hear) under his breath at first and second years as they scurried by. He did everything he had formerly considered low and distasteful. In other words, he did what he had to achieve his goal.

It had been slow to come, but eventually he reaped the rewards of his labors during his 6th year. James and Sirius had been lax in their efforts since their public run-in with Dumbledore, but had nonetheless goaded Snape at every turn carefully, of course, when they were under the radar of their professors. Once when Snape had trailed absently out of the library just before his next class, a momentous book about vampires clutched in his long fingers, James and Sirius flew recklessly down the great stairwell that lie ahead of him, oblivious to his presence until they both looked up in tandem.

"Look what he have here," James said. He jumped to the bottom stair, the egotistical swagger making a sudden reappearance. Over the last year, his blatant self-involvement had dulled but Snape knew James struggled to keep the act up for Lily.

Snape stopped at the words, deliberately unresponsive in action and posture. His eyes narrowed as he watched Potters' partner and fellow scum scan the hallways for witnesses or authority. An unpleasant smile lighted Black's face when he found that they were alone in the hallway.

"I have been hoping we could spend some time alone, Snivellus," Black said, the smile on such a handsome face an unseemly paradox to his ugly tone. "I was worried our relationship was getting boring."

They drew their wands unhurriedly, knowing that there was no threat when it was two against one. There was a long, painful silence before James' decided he was bored with Snape's reaction and cut straight to it.

"Levi—" Before James could finish, he was interrupted by a crisp snarl from behind him.

"Furnunculus!"

As James' turned to the source of the sound, the spell hit him directly in the face. Rosier had descended the stairs behind James and Sirius, Nott and Wilkes bounding in his wake, their faces eager to inspire some pain on the notorious Gryffindors.

As Sirius spun on the attacking Slytherins, Snape saw a golden opportunity. Whipping out his wand, he shouted, "Flagrate!"

A flame sparked on Sirius' pant leg, before erupting into a larger conflagration. Black yelled in anguish as the fire ate through his trousers. He madly shouted 'Aguamenti!' repeatedly to little success, his concentration undoubtedly jarred by the pain.

Rosier, Nott, and Wilkes all brutishly laughed at the scene before them; James blundering on the ground as the giant boils burst and pulsed on his face and Sirius scrambling to put out the last of the flames.

Snape advanced on their helpless forms, hatred twisting his logic, telling him to inflict more pain, make them hurt worse.

"No, C'mon, let's get out of here!" Rosier said jogging over to him. He stifled yet louder laughter as he pulled the cuff of Snape's robes roughly. Snape struggled to get free before allowing himself to be drug away.

Just as they disappeared around the corner of the hallway, Snape registered the startled shriek of Madam Pince. She had likely run into the hallway to scold and shush the screams of agony.

Snape couldn't even think about going to his next class as they rushed him down the hallway. It was a shame because he knew it meant tarnishing his record of perfect attendance. Rosier, Nott, and Wilkes congratulated each other and boastfully mocked the screaming Sirius. When they made their raucous entrance into the common room, they spread the story to anyone who would listen. When they noticed Snape again, they slapped him on the back and recounted with renewed fervor the genius of the Flagrate spell.

Everyone had been laughing, younger years and older years alike. Girls who had never given him a moment of their attention nodded approvingly like he was some rare antique they had overlooked the first time around. It was hard for Snape to let the anger burn away, let the adrenaline fall back to normalcy. He had been so close, he had needed more. Much more. For a moment, he had worried about the strength and all consuming nature of his hunger for revenge, his desire to wield power. But he realized that those traits were exactly what had won him his newfound (even if it was fleeting) popularity within his House.

Snape had come to learn that the popularity had been fleeting, but what he had gained was invaluable. He was a member of Rosier's gang. There had been a few more additions to the gang, as well. Gibbon was new and he displayed a taste for cruelty that even concerned Snape. The new recruits were played into his palm easily. As they came to him more and more for solutions to their problems or for particularly wicked ways in which to torment other students, Snape gradually maneuvered himself into a position of power, even over Rosier. He was, after all, an unquestionably valuable source of information. Rosier was not gifted, however, in when it came to academia or singular smarts, therefore, he hardly noticed the shift.

"I think you need to meet Lucius," Rosier said pushing the foot length essay Snape had been working on to the side. "Why are you _always_ studying? When we graduate, it won't matter what our grades says, only what _he_ thinks."

The way he spoke those last words sent a shiver through Snape. For all his effort, he could not shake the sense of indisputable foreboding.

"Who?" He asked, still distracted by the feeling.

"Lucius," he reiterated, annoyed. "Not that you will. Every time he visits us, you have some brainless excuse. '_I have an exam tomorrow, I have an essay.'_ No matter how many times I tell you that grades don't matter, Snape, you never learn."

It was true that he had avoided a meeting with Lucius. Over his long exposure with his new Slytherin friends, Snape had found that Lucius was regarded something of a legendary leader in the Slytherin House. He also kept up relations with students who still attended Hogwarts. Snape wanted to wait until he felt like he was presentable as an equal. He wanted to be perfect. But, above all, he did not want to be rejected.

As Rosier waited for a response, waited for him to say yes, Snape couldn't help but feel pressured. It would seem suspicious if he continued to put off the meeting. He wouldn't let all the headway he had made with the Slytherins wither away because of his insecurities.

He sighed loudly, dropping his quill onto the table. "Fine," he conceded. "Where is it that the famous Lucius likes to meet?"

"The Hog's Head, of course. Only _respectable_ wizards are allowed to go there."

Rosier arranged a meeting to take place during their next trip to Hogsmeade. Snape arrived early, as usual, with several books to bide his time while he waited. The dimly lit interior of the Hog's Head unsettled him. He didn't like to thought of an attacker lurking out of sight veiled by the shadows. It had a strange aura that enticed him, however. He knew the feeling would keep him coming back for years.

He didn't have to wait long before a slick blonde head pushed open the wooden door. When the full body finally materialized into view, Snape noted that the lanky form possessed unnaturally gray, cold eyes. Lucius had changed little since he last saw him. He had acquired a cane that detracted from his young, unyielding presence. He carried it more as a weapon for striking than as an instrument to lean on. Snape concluded after some consideration that the accessory fit him well.

When Lucius Malfoy finally located Snape at his sparse, secluded table, he approached him, his eyes moving to examine Snape with peculiar interest.

"Severus," Lucius Malfoy spoke evenly to Snape. His words flowed with an arresting indifference, an imperceptible menace. "Indeed, it is truly a pleasure to meet you."

Lucius held out his hand, and as Snape moved to shake it, he noticed that Lucius had not removed his glove. It had been the first of many indications that Lucius would never consider Snape an equal. Equally jarring was the fact that Lucius had used his name. It had been so long since anyone had referred to him by it that it immediately set him at unease.

"Evan has gone on about you for some time now. I'm glad to finally meet the man behind the words."

"Likewise."

Snape felt lost in the surreality of the moment. Though he had often imagined how he would meet Lucius and even mentally prepped himself before coming to the Hog's Head, his words caught dreadfully in his mouth. Since . . . 5th year, Snape had considered Lucius his means to an end. Lucius was his only chance at becoming something. Nervousness coiled off him unconsciously through his uncomfortable fidgeting and eluding eye contact, an anomaly from the person who was normally an expert at self-control.

Sensing that Snape wasn't going to volunteer more, Lucius continued. "Sadly, he did tell me more than just the good." He paused for a moment, looking at Snape thoughtfully. "Your frequent and unfortunate encounters with James Potter." He shook his head slowly, as if a great loss had occurred that left him regretting that he hadn't done more. He paused again, deliberate with his wording. "I wish I had been there."

He lifted the gloved finger to his chin, as if remembering something. "It's a shame James associates himself with mudbloods now. Another pure blood condemning himself as a blood traitor. We lose numbers every year."

For the second time in such a short period of time, Snape felt another jolt in his stomach. How did Lucius know about her? Instinctively, he moved to defend her, and realized just before the words left his mouth that it would be a caustic mistake. Lucius has used the ssocially disreputable word in front of him, showing his trust and belief that they were kin. Snape could not dishonor that.

"Potter knows no bounds when it comes to shaming himself."

"What Gryffindor does?"

Snape smiled uneasily as Lucius laughed casually. As Snape continued to remain mute, filling the air between them with awkward silence, Lucius once again was forced to talk.

"Down to business then. I believe we have a common interest. And common enemies." Lucius let the words hang thickly in the air before continuing. "If I were you, I'd think of Hogwarts as child's play, and your graduation as simply growing up." He said with a theatric movement of his hands. "Right now, there are no consequences, no guideline for you to live by, and nothing you do can truly be consequential. In an adult world, _we_ can offer you real protection, loyalty, and the resources you need."

The 'we' in his statement disturbed Snape. What did he mean by it? Was Snape simply graduating to a bigger gang? Despite the performance Snape made for Rosier, Snape knew fundamentally that he was a loner. He grew increasingly more annoyed as time passed when his 'friends' constantly pestered him with their problems. While Snape sensed that Lucius, would not be like this, he felt as though he were being lured into a trap. He couldn't shake the sense.

"What exactly would I be joining?"

"A brotherhood of sorts. We would, of course, require the same in return. A fair bargain, if you ask me." Snape's expression faltered and Malfoy, sensing hesitancy, moved forward. "Everyone at this school will be nothing compared to what we will all become. There is a greater power out there, Severus. As a Slytherin, you know it's all about those with the strength to take it."

Lucius spoke in a whisper as if what he were to speak of was too superior to be described with words.

"With us, you could make James wish he'd never been accepted to Hogwarts, that he'd never looked upon Severus Snape and thought," here he paused again, for dramatic effect no doubt. "'_That's a boy I can disgrace, that's a boy who is weak_.'"

This last comment struck a chord deep within him. He ignored the accompanying uneasiness and went with that feeling. The feeling was predictably the gripping anticipation at the thought of securing his final revenge on James and Sirius. He rushed at the opportunity, ignoring that this might be his last chance to turn back.


	4. Godric's Hollow

**Note:** Thanks for reading and staying with me this long! Please review if you enjoyed or have any criticisms. Everything is welcome. The essay written in Mugglenet's Madam Puddifoot's section about Snape/Lily inspired this fic. This is FINALLY the last version of this chapter. Unless of course I have done something else that terribly deviates from canon. Which is completely fine, better I know than do it ignorantly! And it gets better! I mean . . I hope it gets better.

He had to give Lucius credit. He had swooped in at the most advantageous time, when Snape had been the most susceptible to his lies and false promises of companionship. The naivete that his youth that his attendance at Hogwarts granted was long departed, and Snape could now look at those times with open, objective eyes.

Not that it mattered much, anyway. Not only had Snape gained the upper hand on Lucius in the long term, he had gained it on many of his (or their) cohorts. Namely, he had never been to Azkaban, suffered serious loss of reputation, or, more importantly, been murdered. If Lucius made it out of Azkaban alive, it wouldn't be long before the Dark Lord got the better of him. Before that, however, the Dark Lord would draw on every last drop of Draco Malfoy's desperation to save his father. The Dark Lord would wrench every advantage he could out of Lucius before killing him. Such were his ways.

Draco. He performed average at best, throwing weapons so wide and conspicuously that Snape was astonished half the school didn't suspect him. Unfortunately, the students of Hogwarts remained as dull and dimwitted as ever. Also, Draco was surprisingly adept at Occlumens, allowing Snape no opportunity to get insight into his real plans. This, of course, assumed that his real plans weren't the badly executed cursed necklace incident and poisoned wine. Snape could only hope it wasn't something so stupid it would bring Draco's purpose and Snape's affiliation with him into sharp, unnecessary focus for all the wizarding world to see. That would place Hogwarts and all its students in a dangerous dilemma since the Dark Lord so hates his secrets exposed.

His thoughts were pushed aside, and Snape's lip curled involuntarily as the simple-minded Harry Potter, every bit his father's son, steamrolled into his office. So famed for his agility and grace on a broom, Potter Jr. certainly had an infallible finesse when it came to barreling through doors and destroying finely kept rooms. Any of Snape's rare good humor was lost at the sight of the boy who could not possibly _try_ to look more like James. His unfortunate resemblance made it all the easier to be as cruel and as horrible to Harry as possible. Though Harry's similarity to James, as infuriating as it was, was far from the worst of his physical qualities.

"Ah, Potter. Mr. Filch has been looking for someone to clear out these old files. They are the records of other Hogwarts wrongdoers and their punishments. Where the ink has grown faint, or the cards have suffered damage from mice, we would like you to copy out the crimes and punishments afresh and, making sure they are in alphabetical order, replace them in the boxes."

He paused a moment, clearly to relish the opportunity to inspire hatred in Harry Potter. "You will not use magic," Snape added, remembering that Potter, surely like his father, would search for the easy way out.

As Potter moved to the nearest box, Snape interrupted. "I thought you could start with boxes one thousand and twelve to one thousand and fifty-six. You will find some familiar names in there, which should add interest to the task. Here, you see . . ."

He pulled out a card from one of the topmost boxes with a flourish and read, "_James Potter and Sirius Black. Apprehended using an illegal hex upon Betram Aubrey. Aubrey's head twice normal size. Double Detention_.'" Snape sneered. "It must be such a comfort to think that, though they are gone, a record of their great achievement remains."

Snape's face flushed with a resounding satisfaction. His mouth curled into a dry, malicious smile so familiar he wondered if there had ever been a time when he hadn't felt completely satisfied in Potter's misery and frustration.

Harry's eyes acknowledged him with profound resentment before he dropped into the seat in front of the boxes, clearly resigned to the laborious and dull work. Snape stepped swiftly to his desk and, after shuffling a few papers, sat down as well. He delicately picked up his gray quill and likewise resigned himself to grading papers, a task as equally unengaging as Potter's.

After nearly half an hour, his thoughts drifted from the tiresome chore, his eyes gradually sliding back to Potter. Potter was hunched over a note card, his brow furrowed in concentration and . . . something else. Snape quickly noted the names on the card who were, as always, paired together in some meaningless misdeed. Good. Perhaps Potter could finally understand how powerful reminders could surface buried emotions of pain and loss. His attention lingered on the faint reflection of Potter's eyes in the circular frame of his glasses. The green hue was no less electric, no less hypnotic then those of his mother.

Snape's free hand balled into an unintentional fist. Why must he be forced to look at both his childhood tormenter and his lost crush? Why must he look at the living evidence of James' and Lily's ludicrous love? His quill cut sharply into Draco Malfoy's paper, etching a spiteful, resonant A despite the boy's abysmal, careless work. Snape felt there was an ironic sense of poetic justice in reminding Harry of his loss of Sirius and James in the same manner in which he often reminded Snape of his failure to Lily and weakness to James.

Snape blazed with a relentless desire to punish Harry more, to strip him of everything he took for granted, to diminish him to a point where he might possibly conceive of what it was and what it had been like to be Severus Snape. While Snape could easily keep him from every Quidditch match, fail him on every essay, and slander him to every potential follower, it wouldn't matter. He could not pry Potter's blindly loyal friends from him, he could not quell the undeserving fame that had burned respect and awe into every ignorant and senseless witch and wizard. **Lily** had sacrificed herself and destroyed the Dark Lord, not Potter.

Snape quickly veered away from that train of thought, requiring himself to focus. He cleared his mind so that it would not become more vulnerable to anyone so inclined to intrude. Thinking of Lily was often a danger, especially now as an adult, when it came to maintaining a single-minded control of his emotions and of his Occlumens against the Dark Lord and countless others. It wasn't as if he didn't allow himself to think of her at all, but, when he did, it was only in a way that approached everything from an emotionless standpoint. There was a place he could do this, a place more protective than any other; a pensieve.

Snape often sought the luxuries of the pensieve. He would crawl out of bed at unearthly hours of the night, deprived from sleep by a frequent, nameless cause, and push past the crumpled papers and dusty tomes in his closet to retrieve his pensieve. He would stare into the liquid glow of the surface for minutes at a time before he would consider which memory to relive. A part of him needed to constantly revive the past, to immerse himself in times and memories that felt so much more alive, that were animated in contrasting reds and blues, not the modern grays and blacks of the present.

The pensieve had also leaked one of his darkest memories to none other than the famous Harry Potter. When it came to their Occlumens lessons, Potter had certainly proven his _worthlessness_ in that area of expertise. The only thing he had gained was the uninvited trespass into one of Snape's worst memory. The memory of returning to his office to find Potter submerged in _his_ pensieve, _his_ memory was one he often repressed. An anger that unyielding threatened his defenses.

Dumbledore had detected the shift in Snape that day immediately, before Snape had thought to close the door in his mind that lashed out so violently. Dumbledore ended their sessions immediately, a wise decision, in Snape's opinion. Snape doubted he would've been able to control breaking into Potter's mind without a murderous abandon. It had been a year since then and, while his temper had cooled, his appetite to inflict pain on Potter had only intensified. His new post in Defense against the Dark Arts had happily given him a new arena to do so.

"I think that will do.Mark the place you have reached. You will continue at ten o'clock next Saturday."

Snape didn't look up as Potter bolted from his office. He waited for a few minutes for any uninvited interruptions before he got up from his desk and locked the door. He walked in slow, measured steps towards his closet, unfolding the doors to reveal the pensieve. He traced a finger over the cold stone basin before promptly choosing a memory.

* * *

The Dark Lord bored into him, his unblinking red eyes searching as ever for a trace of deception, for the seeds of betrayal.

"Do you know why I have brought you here?" The Dark Lord spoke in rhythmic hisses, a sound Snape often had fleeting nightmares of, a voice that permeated his very being with horror and fear. He had long since placed impenetrable fortifications around his inner thoughts and feelings so that the Dark Lord would never know, but that did not stop the feelings, the innate sense that he was in danger. His fortifications were so thick, so flawless because he needed to be in control of himself so that he would never become the Dark Lord's brainless minion like so many other death eaters.

"I would not presume to know any of your intentions."

Voldemort smiled, a wicked, depraved sight to behold. "Always the picture of obedience. That is why it is you here for this most important task and not Lucius."

Snape knew better than to ever assume the Dark Lord favored him. He knew better than to be pawned by his superior. The only reason he could be 'here', wherever here was, instead of someone else was because the Dark Lord trusted him least, feared him most for his abilities and skills in the dark arts and potions. It could've been a death trap for all he knew.

The Dark Lord continued to regard him as Snape looked at two neighboring houses, neither of which withheld any particular characteristics of interest to him.

"Take a moment to look at the fruits of your labor," the Dark Lord said handing him a slip of paper. Snape took the delicate piece of paper and read it carefully. The words 'Godric's Hollow' were slow to form logically in his mind. As he looked back up, he noticed everything had changed.

A new house stood before them, perfectly centered between the houses that he had originally deemed unimportant. The house had two stories. The moon dimly lit the plain white paint as a light switched on in one of the upstairs rooms. They were home.

"I brought you here because it was you who illuminated this possible danger. You could have easily kept it to yourself and used it against me, but you didn't." The Dark Lord began methodically walking across the dewed grass towards the door. "I brought you here because I know that you have a particular score to settle."

He stopped to thoughtfully ponder because, after all, the Dark Lord was never in a hurry. "I suppose this visit has been long due anyway. I have always needed to show my gratitude to James for aligning you so completely to me." With a sinking feeling, Snape knew without a doubt where they were.

After learning of the prophecy and reported it to the Dark Lord, his own research had yielded him two conclusions; either the Potters or the Longbottoms would suffer. The twinge of feeling he felt was unrecognizable. It had been so long since he'd smothered his feelings for Lily. His dreams of her had died the day of his initiation as a death eater. He had far more things to dream about, dreams much less pleasant than the fair-skinned Gryffindor.

He'd felt a sizeable intensification of his hatred for James the day he heard she was married. Excluding the news about their wedding, Snape had rarely thought of her. Her memory was just another point of weakness he had moved on from. But as he reread the results of his research, his reactions told otherwise. As the feeling escalated from a twinge to an irrepressible panic, Snape was having more and more difficulty convincing himself of his own apathy.

Even . . . even if she still held some perverse attraction to her, the birthdates that had laid before him indicated one thing: this could mean James' death. This could be his opportunity to kill him. Could he let a simple attack of conscience thwart what he'd been waiting for since his 5th year at Hogwarts? He hadn't let his misgivings overcome the necessary then, why should he now?

That day Snape had sat at his desk unmoving until the sun sank below the horizon and the first stars speckled the dusky sky. Several times he had reeled toward the fireplace with the unbidden desire to contact someone, to ask someone for help, but he had stopped himself. Snape had to remind himself that it could still be the Longbottom boy. But even the possibility of his being the cause of Lily's death Snape caused sudden regret and guilt to slice through him like a hot knife.

Snape wondered if his reaction would be this strong if he was not already dissatisfied with the choices he had made. For a time, being a death eater had been exactly what he wanted. He was allowed to freely plunder any number of Dark Arts volumes without rousing suspicion among his own. He constructed their plans (be them mayhem or murder) and took utmost satisfaction in the genius designs he produced. He had respect and power. They had given him everything he wanted. But of late, he wondered why he hadn't just gone about achieving his desires himself.

Why did he have to rely on a master for instructions? Why must he follow someone else's agenda, someone else's orders? Once again, Lily flitted unprompted into his mind. The path he had chosen would never allow for his vindication. The prophecy alone had not made that day so momentous. That day's events had made it impossible for him to villainize Lily or justify the taking of her life.

Snape had been in Diagon Alley the day he overheard the prophecy. Were it not for his extraordinary need to replenish his ever-dwindling stock of wormwood, he would've stayed and read in his dreary room. He hated visiting the heavily crowded places in which he might recognize or, even worse, interact with anyone but was often required to do so out of extraordinary need. Therefore, it was a horrible twist of fate as he browsed an aisle of Slug and Jiggers Apothecary, that he should see _her_, skimming her finger along a tub of ingredients unmarked and looking somewhat suspicious. Luckily, he had seen her first and was able to examine the contents of her small basket.

It contained a variety of ingredients that were many and varied. From what little he had known about her in school, he didn't doubt that she continued to cultivate her great interest in the subject. Snape was entranced, struck with a forceful sensation that he'd seen her, just like this, before. Though dreams of her were sparse, the ones he did have were in settings just like this, where he would be confronted with the chance to talk to her.

Just as it was in his dreams, the decision was highly distressing. He wondered if he should just leave the store, backing gradually down the aisle before she could see him. But he couldn't stop himself from believing that this might be the opportunity to get an answer he had long awaited. He would finally know if she thought of him, if she even remembered him, if she hated him, if she was apathetic.

As this craving took over, he opted to feign interest in a package of horned snails, deliberately remaining until she would look up.

"Severus?"

He glanced up, the package of wormwood in his hand. "Lily," he acknowledged her blank faced. He couldn't bring himself to say her new last name.

Her eyes flitted to the package. "Still making sleeping potion, then?"

She regarded him unusually, in a way that took Snape several seconds to decode. The fact that she had addressed him at all meant that the prospect of engaging him in conversation was not all that horrible for her to endure. But her face was guarded and the normally smooth muscles of her face were tensed. It was as if she was faced with a rabid dog and chose to treat it with kindness so that it would not attack.

She also remembered that day.

"Oh," he faltered, unsure how to reply. "Yes. Though on second thought, if I remember correctly, you might need this more than I do."

She paused and for an agonizing moment, he thought she might just walk away. Instead she laughed, visibly relaxing as her clutch loosened around her basket.

"Perhaps. I can't say that my talent for that particular potion has improved over time."

As her face softened and she looked at him, undisturbed by his unkempt hair and simple dress, Snape couldn't repress the profound relief that flooded over him. She seemed to notice a change, but he managed to speak before she mentioned anything.

"What all have you got there?" He asked walking slowly towards her, watching her closely for any indication that his approach bothered her. "Let's see . . . knotgrass, fluxweed, three bicorn horns, and . . . nettles?" He pointed at each without picking them at, unwilling invade too much. "What could you possibly be concocting?" He said with genuine curiosity.

She seemed mutely impressed by his interest and his knowledge. She smiled lightly, her eyes alighting with the passion he knew potions must inspire. "Just a little experimentation." He watched her as she talked and noted the fine distinctions of the older Lily Evans. Her hair was no less bright and it was of similar length, but it did rest somewhat more flatly. Time had done little to quell her unequivocal beauty.

"Though I admit I don't transcribe the fruits of my labors as judiciously as you do, or . . . did," she stumbled.

He watched as a dark look crossed her face. He could only assume she was remembering more about that day, those days.

"You have an impeccable memory," he replied, drawing himself up. This was all he could afford to indulge in at the present. He had gotten what he wanted, but they were not friends by any stretch. He suspected that she knew what side he ultimately reported to and could therefore never offer more than this friendly manner.

"Well, I wish you the best of luck in your inventions," he inclined his head forward and moved further down the aisle. She looked somewhat dismayed that he'd ended the reunion so abruptly, but quickly recovered.

"Goodbye, Severus."

"I'm s—" he had said, turning sharply, but she was already gone.

She'd left before she could see the affect of her words on him, the reaction she'd almost provoked. It was one of the few times in his life that he'd had to stifle a consummate grief. Now he knew that he could've won back her friendship by himself, that he didn't need to be in the place he was with the death eaters. Later, he also knew that he would have to be there if she was going to die. He would have to stop it.

When Snape had shared the prophecy with Voldemort, a small part of him sensed that the Dark Lord would not consult him further with any new information. At the time, Snape didn't even consider the information worth worrying about. Even if Snape knew it was unlikely that the Dark Lord considered prophecies precise predictions of the future, he couldn't risk the consequences after his discovery.

Snape had methodically prodded his fellow death eaters into telling him anything they knew about the Dark Lord's movements. It had been a difficult task, especially since he should not have been asking the questions in the first place. Voldemort worked relentlessly to isolate his death eaters from one another, a smart strategy to keep any from ever forming cohesively against him. Snape had also been surprisingly disconnected from its importance.

Voldemort had suspected the very reaction that Snape was going through now. He knew about Snape's past with Lily and might have assumed Snape would try and warn them. But Voldemort would not expect Snape to betray him. Voldemort considered all of his death eaters to be too supremely cowardly to act against such a menacing lord.

He had spent several days mulling through his thoughts and feelings. He would not make a choice that was impulsive, he would not be a slave to his emotions. That would reduce him to someone as inconsequential as Potter. Potter. At length, Snape decided that two thing were certain; no matter what he felt about Lily or her son, Potter would die. He would die the cruel and cowardly death that he deserved. He also decided that nothing would stop him from trying to help Lily.

It hadn't taken long for Snape to think of who could help him. After all, he was infamous among the death eaters meaning, therefore, that he was Snape's only hope for a truly powerful ally. As Snape went about finding the safest means to contact Albus Dumbledore, he couldn't help picture the tall, expressionless professor moving across the grounds towards him, their eyes locked. Snape hated himself for getting into yet another dilemma only Dumbledore would deliver him from.

In the present, Voldemort resumed walking after his pensive deliberations. Snape felt the first trickles of anxiety form in his consciousness. It had been part of his initiation to reveal himself completely to the Dark Lord. He had broken into Snape's mind and relentlessly ravaged every point of fear, confusion, hatred, and what little remnants there were of love. Snape remembered how he'd lingered on the memories of savage bullying from James and on Snape's infatuation with Lily, things he could use to his advantage. He had rummaged through Snape's dreams and found her presence unmistakable. Snape had kept her a secret from everyone before that point and felt horrendously victimized after the Dark Lord was done.

Voldemort didn't know that at that moment, that at the time he had brutalized Snape the worst, was the last he would ever see of the inside of Snape's consciousness. It was then that Snape had decided to become the most powerful Occlumens that the world had ever known. But even if Snape could block his intrusions now, he couldn't overcome the feeling that Voldemort would always wrongly have a part of him that was privately precious.

Snape now wondered if the Dark Lord had chosen him to be at the scene of the Potters' deaths to fully kill any hope of love or friendship from Lily. Voldemort never acted without a hidden, self-serving motive. The Dark Lord happily inflicted pain on his followers as often as a loving father reassured and hugged his children. It was his way of keeping them in line, of establishing who had the power in such a power-hungry, monstrous group. Anything Voldemort said to him would be lies, that was a given.

After Snape had contacted Dumbledore, they secretly arranged for Snape to become a counter spy for the Order. Snape loathed the thought of having to work with his greatest enemies, but he knew he was doing what had to be done. He was also relieved to find that Dumbledore was keeping their alliance secret from the Order for the time being. A small part of him wished Lily knew. If she died tonight, his chance for forgiveness would too.

Things were looking bad. Voldemort had planned the trip well. Snape was supposed to contact Dumbledore with any new developments in the search for the Potters, but it was too late now. He searched desperately for a way in which he could alert him, caution him but knew the chance that it would go undetected by the Dark Lord was slim. His best hope was to stall Voldemort until he could conceive of a better plan.

"The whole lot of them, then? Mother, father, and son?"

They were at the doorway now. The wood was old but it still maintained most of its original chestnut color. Snape reasoned that the Dark Lord must've gone to a lot of trouble to find the Potters. Dumbledore had informed him that a secret keeper had been put in place, and Snape saw now that even that momentous hindrance couldn't stop the Dark Lord. Snape knew that only a great betrayal could've brought them to this door.

He continued to examine the door for any other wards. Only a bronze knocker hung from the middle of the frame. Snape wondered briefly if the Dark Lord would knock.

The Dark Lord paused and studied Snape again. He brought his hands together, lacing the white, long fingers together in front of him. "Severus, I am a generous master, am I not?"

"Of course."

"The father and the son will die. I leave James to you. My business is with the boy," he said with a sickening smile. "The manner can be to your liking," he said with a bored tone, as if the most monstrous act of Snape's imagination would seem like child's work to Voldemort. "Be quick, however. Set the mark as soon as you are done." He waited patiently for Snape's response.

Snape hesitated, wondering if the Dark Lord waited for what came next. "And the mother?"

"I will offer her the chance to live." A glimmer of good humor buzzed in his voice. He sounded delighted at being so unpredictable. It would certainly be the last thing Lily would expect.

"Why?" Snape asked in a dead tone. Snape carefully reached into his robe to hide the shaking of his hands.

"Another favor to you," Voldemort smiled lightly.

"Thank you," Snape managed to say.

Snape was tempted by the opportunity. What if Lily did accept the chance? No. It was impossible. He knew her character well enough to know that she would never abandon her son and her husband. James. He could finally kill James. Snape thought hungrily about what James' face would look like when he was finally at Snape's mercy.

Snape didn't finish his train of thought before Voldemort put his hand in front of Snape's chest and, without touching him, motioned him away from the door.

"Please. Allow me." Snape watched warily as the Dark Lord drew his wand imperceptibly from his robes. He made to go for the lock at first and then changed course. His white hand clutched the bronze knocker as he rapped lightly, a noise barely audible in the thick night.

Snape struggled to keep control over himself. His breathing was the first to flutter and break from its timely rhythm. He stared fixedly at the door knowing that the moment it creaked open, the moment when the first slit of firelight illuminated their tall figures would be the most crucial. He was at James' doorstep. This was it. His time had finally come. Was his breathing irregular for the anticipation? Were his hands shaking because he was thrilled to finally and definitively beat James? Would the Dark Lord kill Lily before he could save her?

The door opened to reveal a ruggedly handsome, tired James. He was rubbing one eye under his glasses until he realized what he was looking at. His hand dropped to his side to retrieve his wand but it was too late . . . way too late for James. Snape bodily rammed into him, knocking him sprawling to the floor. He silently disarmed him, the wand whirling into the fireplace with a sharp, splintering snap. He started yelling warnings, the only of which that made sense were, "It's him, take Harry and ru—" Snape silenced him with a slash of his wand. 

Snape nodded to Voldemort who was watching passively. Voldemort smiled but didn't move. Why did he watch? As Snape's uncertainty and anxiety mixed with his exhilaration at James' weakness, it was hard for him to maintain his barriers. Their gradual deterioration went unnoticed to Snape as the whirlwind of emotion progressively mastered him.

James scrambled on the floor into a crouching position, balling his fists madly into the carpet to push himself up.

_Petrificus Totalus!_ Snape cast again silently.

James fell heavily to the ground as Snape walked towards him, circling around to his side.

"Potter, I have to say I thought this might be a _little_ harder. You don't know how many times this scenario has played its course in my mind, but this . . . this is by far the most disappointing possibility," Snape spat, every ounce of loathing pouring into his voice.

Snape crouched down to look him in the eyes. James' eyes were frenzied with fear, surprise, and the faint beginnings of outrage.

"You also don't—"

Snape shuddered slightly, a sudden string of thoughts channeling through his mind. He was going to kill James Potter. Even if he hadn't killed anyone before, he could still _kill_ James. He could kill James for **so** many reasons. It shouldn't matter that they were adults now, that he had a son, or that Lily was upstairs. Lily. What was she doing? He needed to go to her.

But the images didn't stop there. It was as if someone were leafing through his brain, searching for the desired page. Dumbledore placing his hand lightly on a thick book, Snape absently asking Lucius a question. Snape whirled on the Dark Lord. How could he have been so careless! In the heat of the moment, the Dark Lord had easily gotten an accurate read on him and all of his intentions. He moved to defend himself, but the Dark Lord was too quick.

"Avada Kadavra!"

Snape shielded himself with his arms automatically, but it was James who fell into a heap on the floor, his various limbs shielding his eyes from their now perpetual blank, open gaze. Snape regarded him for a moment stunned. His attention jerked back to Voldemort who was enraptured with fury. Voldemort would not kill him now. He would have to learn the extent of Snape's betrayal for disposing of him.

As a shriek ripped through the air, their gaze snapped towards the stairwell. Snape caught a momentary glance of Lily. She stared at neither of them, only James' slanted body. Though at first twisted in fear and grief, Lily's face eventually sagged as realization fully swept over her. She clutched a child more tightly in her arms.

"Run!" He said running himself at Voldemort. Once again, his wand was too quick.

He was silently blown back into the dining table, splintering it under his weight. He heard a door slam and a curse as his vision swam. As he was staggering up, limping pathetically to the stairwell Voldemort had just sprinted up, an idea occurred to him.

"Morsmordre !"

Maybe someone would see the mark and come to their aid. Anything sounded good at this point.

At the base of the stairs, Voldemort blasted a variety of curses, hexes, and spells at the door to combat whatever Lily had done keep it shut. As Snape took the first step up the stairs, the door crashed off of its hinges and into the wall behind.

"Stand aside!"

Snape took the stairs by two until he burst into the room where Lily stood, back in a corner, facing the Dark Lord.

He saw Lily, her son in her arms, and he stooped, fixed in place, as they made eye contact. He watched her face contort and change, reflecting the emotions that tore inside her. Her hair was disheveled, nothing like it should be. The glance was short before the Dark Lord snarled at her again.

"Stand. Aside."

She shook her head, her mouth open but unable to produce words. Behind him, Snape had lurched forward, his hands up as if to stop something. He'd opened his mouth to . . . he had wanted to tell her to accept the offer, to live, to not die as uselessly as all the other wizards that Voldemort had come for.

Voldemort turned to look at Snape hatefully before shouting, "Avada Kedavra!"

Snape jumped forward, his hands reaching out to her. He froze when she crumpled to the ground, lying very still.

The baby in her arm began to scream now as Voldemort crossed the distance between them. Snape suddenly snapped back into action and threw himself at Voldemort. The Dark Lord hissed the killing curse for yet a third time just as he made impact. There was a bright, blinding flash and Snape was thrown backwards again into the wall.

Everything went black.

Snape woke again to a deathly quiet room. Things were too blurred for him to make proper sense of them. Something wet dripped thickly down his face and onto his cloak, but he was too confused to understand what it was. He moved through the broken plaster that surrounded him and tried to get to his feet, but couldn't. As his vision cleared, the once cloudy form that lay on the floor opposite him came into sharp focus. He pushed himself upward this time and staggered to it.

Next to Lily the baby had fell helplessly out of her arms cried quietly, an irritated, red shape burned into its forehead. The baby was not his chief concern however. He went to his knees in front of her and moved a strand of red hair from her open eyes behind her ear, the action he had been interrupted from doing nearly 7 years ago. The touch of it sent violent tremors to him before he put his hand over his mouth and sobbed convulsively.

An earlier memory flashed back in his mind then, a memory from school, a memory from a time when it wasn't too late for him. Her red hair bounced around her shoulders as she walked through a sunlit corridor, her face turning just enough for Snape catch the radiant outline of her silhouette. There was no one around her, a rare occurrence, and even though Snape hadn't been able to identify the source of her happiness, she continued to smile on. He couldn't place the time of the memory, except that she had been older then, perhaps her 7th year.

She looked different now though. The smile was gone from her face, the inexplicable radiance of her skin pale now, soon to be subdued by the permanence of death.

Other memories of her flooded his mind as he continued to stare at her through the haze of tears. He remembered the way she would push her hair behind her ear with the end of her quill without looking up from the work that she was always so absorbed in. He remembered how she spent nearly every Saturday morning immersed in a variety of enrapturing, dusty tomes in the library, uncaring that her friends kept begging her to come sit out on the lawn. He remembered how she stopped to help a first year navigate his way correctly to the astronomy tower, her face glowing with good intentions and helpfulness.

* * *

Snape withdrew himself sharply from the memory at this point, watching the last glimmers of its resolution play along the silver surface. He'd fled the room and contacted Dumbledore but had been too . . . he hadn't been able to tell him what happened until later. That day the fame of Harry Potter flew through every wizard's house and was shouted at every street corner. Though people cheered elated in the streets, the Dark Lord's death had meant little to him then.

Snape stood staring down into the black murkiness for what could've been several minutes on end. He wasn't sure why he'd chosen that memory. It was one he often kept in the pensieve so that it would not creep into his mind during his daily routines. The pensieve was a much more effective tool of repression than his mind could ever attempt to be. If there was any reason he could guess, he assumed that it was simply the desire to see her face again. After he dealt with Harry Potter for an extensive amount of time, he always felt the need to see her, even if that could only be achieved with such a horrible memory.

He dreamed of her constantly after all that had transpired, as weak and as foolishly as he had done as a boy. The dreams were different now. He no longer sought her friendship, no longer craved acknowledgement in his dreams. Instead he would be in any number of locations; the library, the grounds, Diagon Alley, the Dining Hall, any location where wizards and students milled about. He would see her walking amiably through the aisles, unhurriedly leafing through the pages of a book, and he would ignore her. He would ignore her even though all he wanted to do was talk to her, to apologize for not doing more. He never did though. He watched, studied, and scrutinized her, but he would never actually talk to her. Then, she would leave.

Sometimes there was a variation. He would see her and immediately follow her through the crowds of people that would rush on like crushing waves, constantly hindering him from ever getting to her. He would eventually lose her down a darkened alleyway and though he would doggedly continue to look for her, but he would never find her. Sometimes he knew she was dead in his dreams, but he looked anyway. The sense of loss when he woke was devastating.

He tapped his wand lightly on the surface. The ripples gradually formed into an image, but he did not sink himself into the basin this time. Lily walked down a sunlit corridor, smiling at no one, smiling at the air around her.

**Final Note:** I know some of you close readers may wonder why Voldemort would ever trust Snape again via OOtP or HBP if he knew about Dumbledore, Lily, etc. One, in this fic I wrote that he only got the briefest glimpse of his memories to assume transpired. Two, he did say in GOF, "One who I believe has left me forever." What would have given him cause to say that if he hadn't suspected betrayal on Snape's behalf? Why would Voldemort not consider Snape as cowardly as Karkaroff? I think Snape is an exceptional liar and could've come up with a line to feed the Dark Lord upon his return. Either way, only time will tell!

Songs that go best with this fic are definitely the following: Adam Stewart – Love Me, Auf Achse – Franz Ferdinand, Shhh – Frou Frou, Before Today and Missing both by Everything But The Girl


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